


smile because I want to

by verity



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Hasetsu, M/M, Makeup, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 23:50:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11977692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: While Victor wanders off to rummage in the bathroom for the designated makeup towel, because of course they have those, Yuuri starts putting everything away. Mila can't imagine doing this all on her own. Foundation, setting powder, bronzer—all of this stuff. He leaves a tube of lipstick and a lip liner pencil out on the counter."Did you forget those?" she says when Yuuri starts closing up the train case."Ah," Yuuri says. "No, they're mine. I wear them sometimes. At home."Mila says, "Can I put them on you?"





	smile because I want to

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cafecliche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cafecliche/gifts).



> I'm currently in the process of writing a long gen fic where Mila comes to train in Hasetsu with Victor as her coach and Otabek as her choreographer.
> 
> This is set after that.
> 
> (Thanks to Ashe and forochel for cheerleading!)

Instead of heading straight to locker room, Mila spends a few minutes sitting down on the barrier, sweat cooling on her chest. Her hamstrings feel tight, her abs burn. She puts her head between her knees for a moment, wrapping her arms around her legs. The rink is quiet; Yuuko is still here, doing paperwork, but everyone else headed home a long time ago.

She's fiddling with her phone when she hears footsteps and jerks her head up. "Hello?" 

It's Yuuri, of all people, in skates and a tracksuit. "Oh, hi, Mila," he says. "Are you still practicing?"

"Just finishing up," she says, climbing to her feet. Her calves protest. "Go ahead."

* * *

Under warm water for five blissful, undisturbed minutes, Mila thinks of nothing at all. She scrubs the sweat off her scalp, washes beneath her breasts, and loofahs her upper back, which keeps breaking out. Her skin is pink and flushed when she emerges. She towels her hair dry and pulls on leggings and an old t-shirt over her ratty underwear and sports bra. As soon as she steps outside the rink, she'll be sweating miserably again, but for the next few minutes, she's clean, her clothes are soft, and having her feet on solid ground feels like heaven.

Mila shoves her dirty clothes into her backpack and throws her headphones loosely around her neck. The hallway outside the locker room is bracing. There's music coming from the rink.

For just a moment, she hesitates. The front door to the rink is right there, but Mila's lived in Hasetsu for half a year and never seen Yuuri skate. She turns away from the exit and heads back to the ice. 

Yuuri is skating a routine Mila doesn't recognize at first. He goes low to the ice to start out with a spin, pivoting off three delicate fingers. Then he leans into the Ina Bauer and, oh, yes, it's the EX program from Pyeongchang. The one where Yuuri wore white, and Victor met him at the barrier with a sheaf of white roses, and it was very romantic up on the jumbotron.

After the step sequence, Yuuri goes spinning up in the air and lands a pristine triple flip. He does a combination—triple Salchow, double toe, triple toe—and skates out of the last landing with his arms spread wide.

Mila's hand covers her mouth. Her breath puffs out white between her fingers.

* * *

"Mila," Victor says as she pulls her bike into the courtyard of the onsen. "You're home late. Did you run into my Yuuri?" He's in a loosely-tied jinbei and sandals, crumpled plastic bag in hand; Makkachin is a few yards away, lifting his leg above some tree roots.

Mila wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist. "He was just getting on the ice. I watched a little." Her traitorous cheeks warm. 

Victor smiles at her—that small curve of his lips that shines all the way to his eyes. "Isn't he beautiful?"

Makkachin shuffles toward them, satisfied, and Mila bends down to scratch behind his ears. "I haven't seen him skate in a long time."

There's some trick that Victor has—has always had—of making his presence fill an entire room. As a coach, he holds himself back; here, Mila feels him as closely as if he were standing next to her. She lifts her head. He's watching her, still smiling that smile. The light glints white off his hair. His striped pants are too short, revealing his knobby ankles. They must be Yuuri's. 

"Makkachin," Victor says in that same low tone from before. He shakes the crumpled bag open, letting it swell with the breeze. "You have to go before we go back in. You know that."

With a grumble, Makkachin pulls away from Mila and heads back into the shadows. Mila gets to her feet. Her whole body aches with the movement. "I'm going to bed," she says after a moment. "Have good night."

Victor lifts his hand in a wave.

* * *

Mila doesn't have a rest day the next day, or the day after that. Skate Canada, where she and Yuri will be competing for the first time this season, is fast approaching. Otabek won't take the ice until the NHK in November. He spends extra hours with Victor and Mila going through the details of her programs, the minute shifts in her carriage between the short and the long. "From the back, from the back." Otabek says, prodding her between her shoulder blades, adjusting the angle of her wrists. 

They've taken the triple axel out of the short program, leaving only the one in the free skate. "You'll build up to it," Victor promises as Mila runs through the jump sequence again. "People will want to see more, so save it for later."

Delayed in customs, Mila and Yuri's costumes don't arrive at the onsen until three days before they're supposed to leave for Montreal. Yuri has been tracking the package anxiously for weeks. He snags the topmost of the three delicately-wrapped parcels Yuuri holds out to him and dashes off to the changing room by the baths. "Me first!" 

Mila rolls her eyes and takes her own pile from Yuuri. "I'm going upstairs." 

She unwraps them all at once, laying the costumes out on her bed. They look simpler and less magnificent in real life than [in the sketches](https://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com/post/163159920589/sidhedraws-better-quality-pic-here-mila). Not unbeautiful, but real. The shimmer is beading; the ombre dips between three different shades; the shoulder of the bodysuit isn't exposed, but fashioned from dark mesh. At a distance, of course, these will all collapse into illusion—she'll be still water, the roiling sea, then the break of waves at the shore.

She puts on the costume for her short program first, floaty sky blue over a brighter leotard beneath. Her hair is a mess, blown dry by the sea wind, and she pulls as much of it as she can into a ponytail. 

Yuri is tapping his foot at the bottom of the stairs, already dressed in his glittering jacket and extravagantly ruffled cravat. He cranes his head when he hears footsteps. "Really? That's boring, baba."

"Not all of us need to dress like a goblin king," she snaps.

Victor has his appraising face on. "It washes you out more than I expected."

"She just needs makeup," Yuuri says, elbowing Victor. "You'll see."

Mila doesn't have any makeup. Well—lip gloss and mascara, not real makeup. "Lilia always did mine. Yuri's, too."

Victor makes the pained expression of someone who briefly had a signature cologne.

"I can do yours," Yuuri says, and then, "Vitya, she'll be fine."

* * *

She changes back into her workout tank and shorts after they finish show-and-tell and follows Yuuri out back to the cottage he and Victor share, right into the bedroom. "Sit down," he says, pointing to the dressing table before he vanishes into the walk-in closet. Of course, Victor has a dressing table, complete with a long bench with room for two. "You're about the same shade as Victor, actually. We can try his foundation." 

There's no mirror in Mila's bedroom and the one in the upstairs bathroom is small, the room dimly lit. She doesn't spend a lot of time looking at her face. It's true that she's pale, with copper eyebrows that match her hair and blonde lashes, but she sweats anything short of Kryolan off in five minutes.

Yuuri comes back with a battered train case too plain to be anything but his own. When he lifts the clasp, it unfolds at a touch. "Here we are." He rummages around in one of the shelves. "This palette, I think—we'll do blue to match, a little smoky."

He turns on the dressing table lights to test foundation on the inside of her wrist. The bare bulbs run around the edge of the wide mirror; they frame Mila like a portrait, or a movie star. Yuuri turns her head away from her reflection and Mila watches until the last moment, when the two fingers against her jaw give way to Yuuri's round face. "Thanks."

"Shhhh," he says—teasing. "Let me work."

Yuuri doesn't start with foundation. He smooths something green over her sunburnt cheeks, then fills in the shadows beneath her eyes and covers the blemishes along her jaw. Lilia always used sponges, daintily dabbing things on, but Yuuri blends foundation with his fingers, smoothing his thumb and forefinger over her jaw. 

"I have to wash my hands," he says after a while. "I'll be right back."

Mila doesn't open her eyes while she waits. Under the heat of the lights, she feels warm from her cheeks right down to her toes. Yuuri must do Victor's makeup, too. The water in the bathroom is running.

"Sorry. Here we go." The rustle of Yuuri swinging a leg over the bench, the creak of wood he eases himself down to face her. "You're quiet."

"I'm fine," she says. "It's just nice."

Fingers adjust her chin, then something cool glosses over her eyelids. "Ah, forgot about that." Yuuri's finger smoothes over each eyelid in turn. He doesn't stop touching her when he switches to brushes, cupping her jaw in his hand. His clean hands smell astringent and sweet. Mila lets him roll her head in his palm, like a doll. 

She opens her eyes for liner and watches Yuuri look at her eyes without looking at her, as if she were a collection of dissembled parts. He crimps her eyelashes before he attaches the false ones and goes over everything with more liner and then mascara. Her mouth looks naked in the mirror. 

"Open up." The pad of his thumb presses briefly to her lower lip before he pulls his hand away. "I think I'll go with a warm pink. Does that sound good?"

"Sure," Mila says. "I don't know." 

Yuuri pencils the outline of her lips carefully, his own faintly parted; he has a beautiful mouth. Mila tilts back her head as Yuuri fills in the lines with lipstick. He's close enough to kiss. "Tell me what you think."

The girl in the mirror looks otherworldly, ready to float out on the ice in her stage makeup. Her wide eyes are framed by vivid blue shading into her pale skin and limned with a deeper blue liner. The bow of her lips is slightly exaggerated, shaping her thin lips into a perfect doll's mouth. 

"Well?" Yuuri says.

"It's perfect," Mila says. "Tell Victor to come look." 

Yuuri turns his head toward the door. "Vitya?"

Furniture squeaks. Victor follows the sound into the room a few moments later. "Wow!" he says in the voice he usually saves for Yuuri and ramen with extra meat. "Yes, that costume will work with this. Yuuri, you're so good."

"Yes," Yuuri says patiently. "Tell Mila she looks lovely, Vitya."

Victor's eyebrows raise in recognition. "Of course. You look beautiful, Mila."

Something about the way he says it makes the lovely quietness from earlier sour in Mila's chest. "I guess I should take it off now," she says. "Do you have makeup remover?"

Yuuri nods. "Let him do it for you." 

There's no reason Victor needs to take makeup off her face, or that Mila needs to take it off here at all. Yet she doesn't move from her seat. "Okay."

While Victor wanders off to rummage in the bathroom for the designated makeup towel, because of course they have those, Yuuri starts putting everything away. Mila can't imagine doing this all on her own. Foundation, setting powder, bronzer—all of this stuff. He leaves a tube of lipstick and a lip liner pencil out on the counter.

"Did you forget those?" she says when Yuuri starts closing up the train case.

"Ah," Yuuri says. "No, they're mine. I wear them sometimes. At home."

Mila says, "Can I put them on you?"

* * *

Mila's done this before, sort of—fixed Nadya's makeup in the bathroom, touched up Sara's eyeliner with more sober hands. She cups Yuuri's chin in her free hand and traces the edge of his lips with the scarlet liner, then colors in the lines with the lipstick, a warm red that complements his skin tone. It's Chanel, of course. 

"Look at you," Victor says, emerging from the bathroom with a towel in hand. "What an artist." Oh. He's talking about her.

Mila flushes imperceptibly beneath layer upon layer of theatrical makeup. 

Yuuri's lips curve and his eyes light with affection. He stands up and gestures toward the bench. "Your turn, Vitya."

Instead of sitting beside Mila, Victor straddles the bench. "Face me," he says, so Mila swings a leg over to mirror him. "It's easier like this, I can see what I'm doing."

Victor starts with her forehead, so Mila can keep her eyes open, half-lidded, gaze trained on the bench and his thighs. He's wearing grey sweatpants that probably cost 50,000 rubles, perfectly cut to emphasize the muscle beneath the fabric without clinging. He's not wearing underwear. Mila shuts her eyes before she can get caught staring at Victor's dick.

Sure, Mila's thought about it—hasn't everyone? Victor has a universal appeal, the kind that suggests he'd buy you dinner at the nicest restaurant in town before banging you in a nightclub bathroom. Except now that Mila knows him—really knows him—she knows that Victor just wants to eat his mother-in-law's food and have sex in his own bedroom with his husband on their imported mattress. Yuuri is the one who would bang you in a nightclub bathroom.

"Open your eyes just a little bit, Mila," Victor says. "Let me get your lash line."

She stares down at Victor's thighs and, fuck. He's hard. He's running a cotton swab around her eyeball. _Do you do this for him, too?_ Mila wants to say, but her voice isn't working.

Victor switches back to the towel and wipes under her eye, down her cheeks, through blush and highlighter and everything that conceals her. Mila parts her lips and he wipes them down with a clean corner. "All done," he says, lowering his hands.

When Mila looks up, Victor is so close their noses almost brush. His eyes glitter in the bright dressing table lights. Mila leans in and Victor kisses her, close-mouthed and sweet. 

For a moment, Mila's too scared to respond, but then a warm hand rests on her shoulder—Yuuri's. So she gives Victor the best she's got, opening her mouth, kissing him like the Victor of her dreams kisses. The real Victor is an even better follower than a lead. 

"My turn." Yuuri taps her shoulder. "If you want." 

Mila says, "Yeah. I want."

* * *

Yuuri kisses thoroughly, whole body pressing against her, dick thick and hot against her thigh. This is how they end up on the bed, Victor spooning Mila, his hands under her shirt. It's four in the afternoon and Mila's hand is in Yuuri's hair while he fucks her mouth with his tongue. Victor bites the back of her neck as he rolls her nipple between his fingers. This is not a dream Mila has had before, but it's one she could get used to.

"Do you—" she pants against Yuuri's neck. "Do you do this often?"

Victor drags his teeth up her neck and says nothing.

"Uh," Yuuri says. "With the Nishigoris, sometimes. They have to get a babysitter."

Somehow, that diminishes the pressure. "Oh, okay," Mila says. "So you have condoms."

Yuuri makes a noise that goes right to Mila's cunt.

"Yes," Victor says, his other hand wandering beneath the waistband of Mila's leggings. "Yuuri can get them."

Yuuri rolls off of her and starts rummaging through the bedside table; Mila rolls onto her stomach as Victor starts wriggling her leggings down her thighs. "This is good?" he says, lips running along her spine as her hips lift off the mattress. He kisses the bare backs of her knees. "You like it?"

"Put your fingers in me," Mila says as she hooks her fingers in the waistband of her underwear. "I'll like that even more."

By the time Yuuri has dragged a box of condoms out of the back of some drawer, two of Victor's fingers are curved inside Mila, gently rubbing the place where she's most sensitive. "You should, you know." Yuuri makes some obscure hand gesture that Victor apparently understands, because he lowers his head between Mila's thighs. Yuuri climbs on the bed, swings his leg over Mila, and bends down to kiss her. Victor's tongue drags over her clit, Yuuri's slides between her lips, and she can't think, she can't _think_. She comes faster than she ever has in her life and shivers and shivers.

When she opens her eyes again, Victor and Yuuri are next to her, kissing. Not the way they kiss in front of her, usually, quick and very married. Victor's dick is in Yuuri's hand, flushed and only halfway out of his pants. Mila pillows her head on her hand as she watches. "At least get undressed first."

"We were waiting for you," Yuuri says with a last tug on Victor's dick. Victor groans when Yuuri lets go and twists his fingers in Yuuri's t-shirt. Yuuri kisses Victor's cheek. "Be _patient_." He looks up at Mila. "Who do you want to, ah—"

"Both of you?" Mila says.

"You should do Victor first, then," Yuuri says. "Look at him."

Victor's cheeks are nearly as pink as his dick, mouth smeared with Yuuri's lipstick. Mila pulls his shirt over his head while Yuuri tugs his pants and briefs off. He hands Mila a condom and Mila rolls it over Victor's dick before she straddles his lap. His dick is just the right side of too big and she's still so wet and relaxed; he goes in easily, dragging against her g-spot. Victor gasps as she settles on him. "It's just me," she says, then, "Victor?"

"He's fine, " Yuuri says from behind her, putting his hands on her hips. "He doesn't like to talk." Then Yuuri lifts her up, slowly, high enough that Victor's dick nearly slips free before he lowers her back down. 

Mila gazes down at Victor, flustered and sloppy with affection. She leans forward and braces her hands on either side of his arms, boxing him in, letting Yuuri fuck her on his husband's dick. She's still sensitive from orgasm, but this feels so good—not just Victor inside her, but how close they are, how neatly they fit her between them. Victor's face screws up, ugly with pleasure, and he arches up into her once as he comes in a long shudder.

"Look at him," Yuuri peers over her shoulder. "My Vitya."

Mila says, "He's gorgeous."

Yuuri gets rid of the condom and wipes Victor clean with another washcloth before he climbs back into bed with them. His lipstick has held up remarkably well, considering how much of it ended up on Victor and probably Mila herself. "So," Yuuri says, meeting Mila's eyes—shy again. "What do you—"

"I'm going to suck your dick," Mila says, and does.

Victor holds Yuuri down, afterward, and whispers in his ear while Mila rides him, fingers cupped over her clit. When she leans over to kiss Yuuri, Victor turns his head up after, and she kisses him again and again, panting into his mouth. Yuuri sucks a bruise onto her throat and she doesn't even care. She comes like that, their mouths on her, Yuuri spilling inside her.

* * *

Mila drowses between them for a while, Yuuri drooling on one shoulder and Victor curled up on her other side, his arm thrown across her chest. Something restless in her feels quieted. Or fucked out, anyway.

"It's almost dinner time." Victor kisses her cheek, jolting her out of her daze. "Do you want me to bring you something?"

"Would you?" Mila is not ready to do the walk of shame into the onsen's dinner service.

Victor smiles. "Of course." He kisses her cheek again before he gets out of bed.

Yuuri grumbles in his sleep and slings a leg over Mila's, trapping her under him. His soft belly presses against her hip, his arm snugs up under her breasts. His breath is hot on her neck.

Victor is gone long enough that Mila thinks he's headed to dinner when he comes back into the room, his own face clean and another towel in his hand. "Let me clean you up," Victor says, reaching toward her face. He takes her chin in hand and wipes the smudged lipstick away. "There you are."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com).


End file.
